The Wasteland King
by AdamF
Summary: A single plant grows in the vast, barren land of the wastes, and every man is looking to learn its secrets, harness its power... and become the Wasteland King. Follows multiple characters and plots. Some harsh language and adult themes.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

*******

**Walter**

*****  
**

"Yes, Jenny, I'm _sure_. Don't you think I know the difference between a plant and a god _damned _piece of trash?" Walter snapped, hurt. "I'm an old fool, but I'm no _stupid_ old fool." He ran his hand over the wrinkled skin of his forehead. It felt leathery and dirty beneath his fingers, and when he pulled the hand away, it was covered with sweat. He grunted, pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket, and swiped it across his brow. "I mean... this here was the real deal, Jenny. I'm talking about a green-as-God plant, growing right out in the wastes!"

Jenny flicked an ash off her cigarette into the tray on the table between them. She leaned back, crossed her legs, and blew smoke up into the air. Walter watched it swirl there a moment before dissipating into the dim light of the saloon. "I don't know Walt," she began. "Your age isn't doing you any favors anymore. Your eyes could have played a trick on you. Remember last week when you saw the 'flying saucer' over the Super-Duper Mart? I mean, Christ Walter! A plant in the wastelands... it's just not possible. The radiation don't let _nothing_ live out there for long."

Her voice was soft and her eyes sweet, but her words cut. "Jenny, I will take you there! What are you going to say when this old fool lets you see his 'imaginary' plant in with your own two eyes?" Walter looked around Moriarty's Saloon, suddenly aware that his voice had grown a few decibels. Him and Jenny had a private booth off to the side, but he still had to watch his tongue. A living plant in the wastes was nothing to take lightly, and he figured it best if only he knew. And Jenny: after all, he _had_ to tell someone, and the woman had always been kind to him... she even slept with him once, a lifetime ago, after a particularly long--and whiskey-filled--night at Moriarty's.

Jenny smirked at him and began rolling the cigarette around in her fingers. "Walter... this better not be some sort of trick. If it is, it's not very nice."

Walter put one hand over his heart and raised the other. "I'm too damn old to play tricks. I promise you Jenny. I'll take you tomorrow, first thing in the morning. It's not far from here. Meet up at the gates around... say nine o'clock?" He suddenly felt his old heart beating quicker. The thought of taking Jenny out into the wastes to see his plant was... exciting. It would be quite an adventure in his otherwise mundane little existence in Megaton.

Jenny studied him, playing with her cigarette. Walter swallowed and remembered the night she had slept with him. _She's giving you the same eyes, Walter. She remembers to. _"OK Walt," she said, breaking into his thoughts, "we'll go see your plant." She stood and stubbed her cigarette. "But it better be there! ...It's getting late, and I'm getting tired. I'll see you tomorrow." As she passed by him, he turned to watch her butt as she walked.

"Jenny," He called out to stop her, not really knowing why. She turned and Walter felt his throat tightened. _Ask her back to your place you old fool! She's always been good to you, and maybe she even likes you. No, no that's stupid to think. But maybe she'd take pity on an old man and give you a screw to keep your mind at ease._ He became aware that she was waiting for him to speak; watching him with a puzzled frown. He tripped over some words before finally saying, "I really did see that flying saucer."

She smiled at him and nodded her head. "I know you did Walt. I know you did."

She left, and the saloon seemed to grow colder and lonelier when she did. Walter sighed and looked around. Gob was manned at his usual position behind the bar; the ghouls grotesque face grimacing as he cleaned out some slop from a bowl. Colin Moriarty was sitting at the bar sipping on his patented nuka-whiskey drink and reading over some paperwork. The whore, Nova, was flirting with a young blond guy at a table near the staircase, and judging by the mans glazed-over look and goofy grin, she was going to get paid tonight. Walter had paid for her 'services' many times, but she was no Jenny. She was... _used_.

Walter sipped on some of his vodka and felt the booze starting to hit him. He glanced down at the near-empty glass and realized what a lightweight he'd become in his old age. He swirled it around a bit and downed the rest as Lucy West walked through the front doors to the saloon and sat in-

That was when Walter spied him--the sneaky devil--sitting at the opposite side of the bar, practically hidden amongst the shadows and the thin layer of cigarette smoke that hung about his table like a poisonous gas. His face was darkened, but Walter could make out the thin, long nose and chiseled jaw line beneath the brim of his black fedora. It was the guy who called himself: 'Mister Burke'.

_Who does he think he is parading around the wastes in that fancy hat and suit? He think his shit don't stink like the rest of ours? _Walter thought as he stalked up to the bar and ordered another vodka from Gob, tossed a few caps down, and took a seat to enjoy his drink. _Probably up to no good. Guys like him never are._

Burke was speaking with another man, and if Walter didn't know any better, the other one looked like a ghoul beneath his heavy black trench coat and grey fedora. He wondered if it was one of Gob's friends, because no ghoul besides him was permitted inside Megaton's walls. Walter took a sip of his vodka and glared at Burke over the rim of the glass. The suited man cocked his head sideways for a moment, as if he were listening for something, then turned it mid-sentence towards Walter; his sunglass-tinted eyes fixing on Walter's own. Walter quickly pulled his gaze away and looked down at his Vodka: something about that man's look always gave him the creeps.

"Something on your mind tonight Walter?" Gob's coarse ghoul-voice came from behind the bar. Walter looked up at him, said nothing, and finished his drink. When the glass was empty, he gave Gob a friendly smile and nod, turned, and walked outside.

"Steady Walter," he commanded himself as his hands fell on the railing of the walkway outside. The cool night air hit him and his head had began to spin. "Lightweight," he muttered to himself and--using the railing--began slowly making his way to the Water Processing Plant where his tiny room and tiny bed awaited.

When he got there, he yanked the door open, slipped inside, and pulled it shut behind him. Water pipes and rusted metals and the thick stench of old, damp cloth greeted him; he'd had to wrap some of his old clothing around a broken water main that ran beneath the grated floor of the plant to help control a slow leak. He shuffled his way around a cardboard box full of tools and scrap metal and pushed the door open to his little bedroom in the back. The lonely twin-sized cot hung beside the wall waiting for him. He sighed.

As he laid back and let the gentle warmth of the booze settle his old bones down, he thought about the plant. It was a simple, small, green thing, but sitting out amongst the vast wastelands, it was transformed into a creature of beauty. Its thick, dewy green leaves had been calmly swaying in the breeze, and Walter could have sworn the earth around it looked different: like a patch over an old wound. _Maybe it is a patch, and maybe it's finally time for this old earth to start healing itself._ The thought was peaceful, and it led him into a deep sleep.

***

He woke up to the not-so-peaceful sound of someone damn-near banging his door in. "Son of a god damned bitch," Walter muttered as he struggled to get off the bed. As the years went on, so did the length of time it took him to get up in the morning. He slipped his feet into his work boots and went to the front door, cursing under his breath the whole way. "This better either be the girl of my dreams or God himself to tell me the world's ended," He shouted as he opened the front door.

Mister Burke stood in the mornings light with his hands folded in front of him and a wide grin plastered onto his chiseled jaw. Walter opened his mouth, but then another man--the ghoul who Burke was talking to at the bar the night before--shot around the corner of the building and shoved him inside. Walter tumbled backwards, tripped over a heap of scrap metal, and landed hard on his elbows and back. He groaned and winced in pain as Burke and his companion walked inside, closing the door behind them.

"On your feet old timer," Burke commanded, his voice as cool and collected as his suit was neat.

Walter looked from him to the ghoul and back to Burke. He felt a little angry and a lot confused; although the anger was being slowly replaced by fear. "What's going on here!?" He demanded and propped himself up sideways on his elbow. His bad knee sent an audible CRACK booming through the large room of the water plant as it bent.

"Please, sir," Burke began calmly as he removed his sunglasses, "to your feet. We can't speak like civilized men when your laying on the floor like a child, can we? I think not. Stand."

Walter swallowed and glanced over at the ghoul. A big, black 9mm was resting against his hip with the mother of all silencers wrapped around its nozzle. The ghoul's scarred and radiated face gave nothing of his emotions away. "Alright, OK. Give an old man a minute," Walter asked as he began the long, difficult climb to his feet.

"Winston, are you a ghoul or a monster? Help the old man up," Burke told the ghoul, apparently _Winston _the ghoul, who quickly obeyed, slipping his arms beneath Walter's own so gently, you would have never known he was the one who'd just tossed him to the ground. When Walter's feet were beneath him, he gave the ghoul a nervous nod of thanks and dusted his jumpsuit off. "So sorry about the rude entrance," Burke continued, putting his arms behind his back as he strolled around the plant looking at pipes. "This is a swell place Walter-oh, do you mind if I call you Walter?"

"People been calling me that for the last sixty-one years, don't see any reason why it won't do now."

Burke's face almost look insulted, but then the shit-eating grin wiped out any trace of it. "You maintain this place all by yourself?" Walter nodded. "Impressive. A man of your... _advanced _years can still be so useful... it's inspiring in a way, really. You know, where I come from-"

"And where would that be Mister Burke, if you don't mind me calling you Mister Burke."

Burke measured him with thoughtful eyes. "Just Burke is fine," He said and sat down on a water pipe near the back of the building. He folded his arms across his chest and took a deep breath as he looked around the ceiling. "I come from so many places, sometimes I'm not even sure where the first one was. Tenpenny Tower is my home now though, that's the only place worth remembering. You've heard of Mr. Tenpenny, haven't you Walter? He's an awfully old man, like yourself, but he does find his uses. Also like you."

"Mister Burke... Burke," Walter corrected himself as he walked towards the suited man, "I know all bout Allistair Tenpenny, and I believe I know all about you, and to be honest: I don't truthfully think I like or _trust _either one of you." Burke's grin widened at that. "Now, going by what I do know, I'd say you're here on business, so I'd ask you politely to get the business part of this conversation on the road so I can get about the rest of my morning."

Burke sighed, stood, and walked up to Walter. His eyes were two hidden black marbles behind his sunglasses. His face had grown somber. "The conversations are the most pleasant and interesting parts of my job, Walter. The back-n-forth, the feeling each out, the witty remarks, the sarcastic retorts... it's what I live for. It saddens me that you want to get to the part _after_ this one so quickly, because, honestly, it's my _least _favorite part." Burke put a hand on his shoulder as the grin reappeared on his face, this time more sympathetic than mischievous. He moved Walter to the side and looked back over his shoulder. He nodded at the ghoul.

Walter never heard a gunshot, only the quiet whisper of the silencer as the bullet blasted through it and into his leg. Pain ran in waves up his entire body like a domino-effect, and when it reached his throat, he let out a yell and collapsed sideways to the floor. His hands found the wounded leg, which felt damp with blood and strange to him beneath his fingers. It felt like someone was sticking him with a thousand needles in the same spot.

"Now, you see what you rushed into Walter?" Burke asked as he knelt down and put his hand on Walter's chest to steady his movement. "Walter? Walter! Look at me!" Walter forced his eyes over to Burke's. The pain in his leg was screaming at him; his vision felt blurry and heavy. "I really don't like this part," Burke told him as he removed his sunglasses. Walter swallowed as he finally saw the monsters real eyes for the first time. They truly _were _little black marbles, and they looked soulless. "Walter, I'm going to need to know were that plant of yours is that you were speaking so... _exuberantly _about last night. Mr. Tenpenny has a great interest in things like that, you see, and it would please him _so_ much to get his hands on it."

"Fuck you," Walter said; the pain had taken away any fears he had.

Burke looked disappointed. "Walter. My ghoul partner over there shot you in the calf. The next bullet goes into the top of your kneecap. Have you ever been shot there? Do you _know_ what it feels like to have a bullet shatter a chunk of bone in less than a second?"

"Mister Burke... Burke," Walter corrected himself as he turned his body towards the suited devil, his hands clutched around his bloody leg, "I was born in the wastelands. I grew up there, working my entire adolescence away fixing things. Always been my special talent, you know. I came to Megaton some forty years gone now, and I've been working here at this plant for almost all of them. I don't get paid vacations. I don't take weekends. Never had a sick day. I'm sixty-one years old. If you think _pain_ is what scares me, pardon the language, but your more fucking senile than I am."

Burke grinned. "The conversation Walter. You learn _so _ much from it." He looked up at the ghoul. "Winston, go find old Walter's lady friend from last night. Put a bullet in her belly, and while she's bleeding to death, tell her Walter sent you."

The ghoul nodded and turned towards the front door. "Now you just wait there a god-damned minute! She ain't got shit to do with any of this!" Walter demanded.

"No, she doesn't," Burke said, voice ice cool. "Neither does your ten year old niece in Rivet city. Or your old engineering buddy Thompson in Big Town. Walter, do you think I come into a man's home without knowing anything about him? I'm going to hunt down and hurt everyone you ever _spoke_ to."

Walter's old heart felt ready to break. He could picture his poor niece's face of terror as Burke came into her room. A shrill whine escaped his throat at the very thought. Thompson, that old dog partner of his, was a few years older than himself; he didn't need no trouble. And Jenny... sweet Jenny who had give an old man the night of his life once... she _certainly_ didn't deserve no grief. But then there was Tenpenny, and Walter couldn't stop himself from thinking what sort of power a man could wield if he knew the secrets to starting life in the wastes. Men like Tenpenny and Burke... they were wicked, black beasts, and Walter didn't want to think of the wastelands--_his _wastelands--at their mercy.

"What's it going to be Walter?" Burke asked gently. "Either way we're going to reach the same conclusion in this story: you're going to tell us where this plant is. The road we take to get there is entirely up to you. It could be filled with pain... or it could be filled with _severe _pain. What are you so worried about? You worried about me? You don't want your teensy-tiny little plant to come into _my _hands? Walter! Come now! I'm not such a bad guy! We're in the wastelands! There is no more 'good' and 'bad', there's 'bad' and 'worse', and, honestly, I don't think I'm any worse than the rest of the scum out there."

"You're going to keep going after all my friends and family because you think I'll eventually tell you were this plant is? That about right? That our business?" Walter asked, realizing what he had to do.

"That's our business," Burke agreed, nodding his head.

"Then I'll tell you what you want to know; hell, I'll even mark it down for you on a map. Help an old man to his feet though, after all, we can't speak like _civilized _men while I'm laying on the floor like a child."

Burke's grin finally seemed genuine. He gave the ghoul a nod, who proceeded to get beside Walter and grab him under the arm. Burke stood and hooked his other arm, and then they were slowly lifting him to his feet.

_I'm an old fool... but I'm no _stupid_ old fool. Goodbye Jenny, _Walter thought. He reached over, pulled the ghoul's pistol from its holster, and blew his brains out the top of his skull.

***


	2. The Vault Princess

**The Vault Princess**

*******

**Holly**

*****  
**

"And if we _can_ manage to cut back on our water expenditure, who _knows_ what kinds of possibilities lie ahead of us?" Anna Freeman asked the classroom enthusiastically. Holly sighed and glanced around. Not a kid in sight shared Anna's enthusiasm; in fact, most looked bored to tears. Holly couldn't blame them, the girl had been rambling on for three pages about 'water expenditure'. Anna's face tightened, upset by the lack of response from the classroom, and she closed her papers in a fit. "That concludes my essay: '_Save Water to Make Water_'." She tossed her work down on Mr. Lamenti's desk and stormed off to her seat.

Mr. Lamenti rolled his eyes and reorganized his stack of student essays. "Thank you Anna, that was... _interesting." _He blew out a deep breath and scanned a paper in front of him. "Let's see, who's left..." Holly tapped her fingers on her desk, trying her best to stay patient. "Ah, yes. There we are," Mr. Lamenti began and Holly started to push out her chair, "Ethan," he called, and she pulled it back in.

Ethan stood up at the opposite side of the classroom, and Holly noticed his freckle-spotted face looked particularly nervous beneath his mop of auburn hair. _Oh god, Ethan. Don't tell me you didn't do the assignment, _she thought and bit her lip. He shuffled down the row of desks to the front of the class, and spun around upon reaching the projector screen. His eyes caught Holly's, and she knew he had nothing.

"Mr. Drummer, I can't help but notice you are empty-handed," Mr. Lamenti casually stated, folding his arms across his chest. "Need I remind you, if you didn't manage to complete your essay by today, you won't be able to participate in the G.O.A.T. next week. That means your occupational placement will be entirely in _my_ hands."

The color of Ethan's face began to match the color of his hair. "Well, I- It's just that... Well-"

_You're going to owe me big, Ethan, _Holly thought. "It's just that we did a joint essay, Mr. Lamenti," She stated as she stood up. Ethan squinted at her, confused, and Holly gave him a look as to say: 'Let me handle this.'.

"_Joint _essay? I don't remember that being part of the assignment, Holly. You taking over my teaching duties?"

"No, sir. It's just..." She paused, thinking of a lie. " ...it's just that our idea was so ambitious, we thought it would be best if the two of us presented it as one piece, instead of splitting it into two individual essays. We wouldn't want to bore the classroom, after all," she said, thinking of Anna Freeman's lengthy work.

"You both had the _same_ idea for you essay?" Mr. Lamenti questioned, raising an eyebrow. Holly quickly nodded. Ethan stared at the teacher wide-eyed, then nodded as well. Mr. Lamenti shook his head doubtfully. "Ms. Miller..." He began, staring at Holly. He sighed. "I suppose the floor is yours."

Holly blew out a breath of air and gathered her paperwork together. She joined Ethan at the head of the classroom and faced the crowd of her bored, tired, and indifferent classmates. At fifteen years old, she was a year younger than any of them, but knew _none _of them could match her intellectually. Anna Freeman was glaring at her, still bothered by her own essay-reception, and in no mood to hear someone else's. Steven Niles was trying to balance a pencil on his nose. Susan O'Reily was blowing a bubble of gum and tapping her foot. Peterson and McMannis were in the very back: Peterson was grabbing his crotch and blowing her a kiss; McMannis was making an obscene gesture using his hand, mouth, and tongue. She pulled her look away from them, not allowing their childish acts to distract her. _Time to blow them away, Holly. All your hard work is about to pay off. _"Our essay on improving life in the Vault is entitled-

"Actually, I'd like to hear Mr. Drummer say the title," Mr. Lamenti cut in. Holly swallowed, realizing the teacher was trying to throw them a curveball.

"Oh," Ethan sounded stupefied. "It's... it's..."

"It's been recently changed, Ethan," Holly said, turning to face him. "I didn't like your title, so I switched it this morning. Sorry." Mr. Lamenti regarded her suspiciously, but there was almost a touch of admiration in his eyes. He motioned for her to continue. She did. "We have entitled it: '_Outside the Vault: Where Life Begins_!'."

The entire class groaned in unison, and even Mr. Lamenti seemed to shift in his seat uncomfortably. "I can't say the title surprises me, Ms. Miller, but please... do continue," he said dryly.

Holly knew people were sick of hearing her essays and stories and reports about leaving the Vault, but she honestly didn't care if they were sick of them: the outside world was her passion. No one complained when Steven Niles brought up the idea of starting a stupid Vault baseball league once a month, or when Jaclyn Kroplavish went on and on about improving the Vault cooking. The only reason they gave _her_ such a hard time was because everyone thought talks about the world outside the Vault were a moot issue: after all, no one _ever_ got to leave the Vault. _And no one ever will, if I don't keep bringing it up, _Holly thought and opened up her paperwork to the first page.

She cleared her throat. "Let me ask you all a question: What does fresh air taste like? What does the warmth of the Sun on your skin feel like? What does the wind sound like? I can answer for all of you: We don't know. Everything we do know, everything we _think_ we do know of the outside world, comes from books and reports literally _dozens _of years old!" Peterson started a loud and comical fake snore in the back of the room. A few people chuckled. Holly pushed past it. "When the first scientists spoke of Vault life after the bombs, they didn't know how long humanity would have to remain within them. They couldn't have possibly predicted the _stupendous _amount of time we've spent within these walls. They couldn't have predicted the dangerous effects on our mental and physical condition, that--regardless of what many say--_is_ a real threat to our well being!"

"And how could they have known how bad the smell would be in the cafeteria on 'Mystery Meat Tuesdays'?" Ethan added, and the classroom became a mix of snorts and laughter. Holly looked at him tight-lipped and shook her head. The smile faded from his face, and he took a step back. She knew he was only trying to help by lightening the mood, but she couldn't have her point lost beneath the laughter.

"We deserve a life outside the Vault," she continued. "If we stay here our entire lives, that means the next generation will likely do the same. It's a never-ending cycle! Does anyone here truly believe in the ghost-stories of Mrs. Kossler? There are no such thing as 'ghouls' and 'mutants'. If there were, don't any of you think they would have come to our pathetic little vault by now? Don't you think we would have made some sort of contact? If we can overcome our fears, believe in ourselves, and work together, I believe we can improve life in--and outside--the vault, ten-fold!" Holly finished, enthusiastically lifting her arms for dramatic effect. Most of the classroom looked more ready to fall asleep than when Anna Freeman was talking about water expenditure! Holly couldn't believe it. _Don't any of them aspire for _more!_?_

"What my partner is trying to say," Ethan interjected, "Is this: Someday the Vault will EXPLODE with balls of fire and the walls will leak ACID, and the radroachs will grow to a HUNDRED feet tall... do you _really_ want to be stuck in the Vault with nowhere to run to?" His words were met with more chuckles from the class.

"That's not _exactly _what I was trying to say, but thanks Ethan," Holly said, giving him an annoyed glance. "What I really want to point out is-" Her words were drowned out by the buzzing of the school bell. Class was over. Holly tried to ask people to wait, but they were already on the move: her essay already a forgotten bore in their minds.

When the classroom had emptied--and the speed at which it did so never ceased to impress--only Holly and Ethan were left at the front of the room. Mr. Lamenti took Holly's essay and tossed it down with the rest. "Ethan, as _inspiring_ a display of teamwork as that was," he began, eyes darting between the two of them, "I can't accept it as your essay."

Ethan sighed and ran his hand through his mop of hair. "Yeah, alright. I sort of figured."

"Just give me fifteen-hundred words by morning and I'll grade it."

Ethan's face lit up. "Oh, thanks so much Mr. Lamenti!" He grabbed Holly's shoulder and gave her a big, dopey smile. "And thanks for trying Holly."

Mr. Lamenti dismissed Ethan, and then turned his gaze on her. "Ms. Miller, I was really hoping you would have aimed that focused brain of yours on something that would _actually _help the Vault today."

_Here we go, _she thought. "But, Mr. Lamenti-"

"I'm not going to dock you any grade points, not like it would dent your grade anyway, but I want you to stop wasting all your time going on and on about leaving the Vault." Holly looked down at her shoes. She knew there was no way for that to happen. When she looked back up, Mr. Lamenti was giving her thoughtful eyes. "You have too much of your fathers curiosity. That's what it is. Always trying to figure out how the world works." She nodded her head at a loss for words. He was right about her father's aspirations, that was for sure. The man had spent his whole life studying what little they knew about the outside world. "Well, regardless, I'm sure after the G.O.A.T. next week, you'll make a fine scientist, just like him. I hope we get to see that brain put to use on better things than a teenage girl's fantasies though. You're dismissed." She turned to leave, and he called over her shoulder, "And try to make Ethan remember his essay tonight."

_Teenage girl's FANTASIES!?, _she thought to herself as she stormed down the hall outside the classroom. _Where does Mr. Lamenti get off calling my ideas _fantasies!? _One more week of this stupid class, and then I don't have to bother with people like him anymore. I'll get to go study with the scientists and my father. Teenage girl's fantasies... ha! He'll see. _She turned the corner of the hall still feeling slightly annoyed, and found herself even more annoyed when she saw Peterson and McMannis waiting there. They were leaning up against either wall, building an impossible-to-breach gate between them. Holly stopped, gave them both a glance, and tightened her grip on her books.

"Good golly, Miss Holly," McMannis was the first to taunt; his beady eyes and rat-nose pointed in her direction. "Say, we found something you might be able to help us with. You wanna check it out?"

She looked back down the way she came, then back at them. The only other way to her room was taking the stairs next to the cafeteria to the first floor and circling around to the stairwell near the lobby. She didn't want to do all that. "Get out of my way idiots," She told them, trying to sound her toughest. It didn't do much good; she was a scientist's daughter, after all.

"Excuse me, Smarty Pants, but I don't actually think we're _in_ your way!" Peterson snorted and motioned to the open gap between himself and McMannis. "We were just asking for your help."

"With what?" Holly humored them. She knew they were up to no good; they'd picked on her since the day she was bumped up to their grade level two years ago. They were stupid, cruel boys who were destined for waste management duties, but, at the moment, they were bigger and stronger, and there was more of them than her.

Peterson snorted again and McMannis echoed him. "We caught this... _thing _inside Ms. Donnely's cooking class that we think you could... give us your expertise on."

"Yeah, expertise." McMannis added.

"It's only right through this window. Go ahead, you can see it for yourself," Peterson urged and beckoned her to the long, rectangular sheet of glass that ran between the hall and the cooking room inside. Holly sighed. She knew they were trying to pull some stupid prank of her, but it was either play along or waste twenty minutes heading the other way. _Maybe it's just some gross picture taped to the glass, or maybe they'll just knock my books out of my hands and be done with me. _She cautiously moved beside Peterson and peered through the window. The cooking room was empty and dark: save for the light that was coming in through the hallway. "Come on, Peterson. What are you trying to show me?"

"Take a closer look!" He suddenly barked, and then they were hooking Holly under the arms and lifting her. She shouted at them and kicked her feet, but they were already dangling off the ground. McMannis opened the door as Peterson shoved her inside. Her books spilt out in front of her as she slid to her knees in the room. She got up and spun around, but they had already closed the door behind her.

"Let me out!" Holly yelled and pounded on the door with her fists. It had been locked from the outside.

"Take a look at what we found," McMannis' voice came muffled from the other side, and then he and Peterson's faces were in the window beside the door, watching her with big, ugly grins on their faces.

Holly held her breath as she turned around and looked into the darkness of the classroom. She looked... looked... nothing was there. "No!" She gasped when she finally saw. Out of the blackness of the back of the room, moving slowly and quietly amongst the shadows and across the smoothness of the linoleum floor, was a radroach. Holly spun and began pounding on the door again. "Please! No! Let me out!" She hated radroaches. She hated _all_ bugs and insects really, but radroaches were particularly terrifying to her: their thin, hairy legs and slimy bodies; their long, probing antennas; the hissing noise they made when they felt threatened. Her throat felt tight, and her heart was skipping beats as it pounded in her chest. She couldn't look at it, but at the same time, she needed to. She had to see if it was getting... closer.

"Watch out Holly, it looks hungry!" Peterson teased and pointed over her shoulder.

She glanced back and saw the thing was nearing her. She screamed and pounded on the door as hard as she could. It was behind her, closing the gap, looking for her--_searching_ for her--with its antennas; slimy, prickly legs ready to wrap around her throat and sink its rotted mandibles into her skin and feast on her blood. It hissed. She heard the monster _hiss_! "Please guys! Please let me out!" Her bladder felt weak and ready to give up on her, and her eyes had began to tear. The radroach was coming, it was _COMING_! It bumped the heel of her shoe, and she screamed again; this time stomping her foot down, hoping to crush the monsters skull in and be done with it.

The door opened and she spilt out into the hallway and into Ethan's arms. The two of them tumbled to the far wall and crashed to the floor. "Woah, Holly! Are you alright!?"

She shot her head back--fingers tightly sunk into Ethan's vault jumpsuit--and looked around wide-eyed for the monster. She spotted it coming through the doorway, only... it wasn't a radroach at all. It was just a hunk of meat on top of a brown paper bag that had a few thick ropes sticking out of it for legs. A thin wire was stretching away from it, around the corner, and down the hall to where Peterson and McMannis were walking away, holding the end. "Hisssss!" They teased her and laughed, as they tugged their cruel trick along behind them.

Holly rubbed tears out of her eyes as Ethan fetched her books from the ground. "Are you alright?" He asked her, but the fear had taken all her strength, so she only nodded, took her books, and headed to her room.

*******

The hot shower helped, and after Holly had dried and gotten into her pajamas, she found herself going to her art book for further comfort. The old, leather cover was a welcome face as she tossed it down on her bed and laid down in front of it. _Childish morons, _she thought as she opened to her first page, _Peterson, McMannis... even Mr. Lamenti... I think I hate them. _She mulled over the idea for a moment. _No, Mr. Lamenti is a good teacher, and I know he's just trying to help me, but Peterson and McMannis... what is _wrong _with those boys? _The two of them weren't always cruel. It wasn't until a few years back when the lumps had began to form on her chest, and the voices of the boys had began to crack that they got wicked. Her father called it puberty, and told her that was the way some boys dealt with their new feelings towards girls. Holly just thought it was because while she got smarter, their brains stopped at the age of twelve. And they resented her for it.

The first page in her book had a drawing she'd done when she was only five years old. It was on a piece of old construction paper that wasn't even part of the book, but her father had called the picture 'too precious' and stapled it in. It was a crayon drawing of her father in his lab coat; his head and glasses comically oversized above his tiny body. He was standing under a big yellow ball with squiggly lines coming out of it that five year old Holly had labeled "The Son". She smiled nostalgically at the typo and glanced down at the bottom of the paper, where a little girl with dark hair and a poorly-drawn smiley face was holding her daddy's hand.

Skimming through a few pages, she came upon a drawing she'd done only a few months earlier. The picture had come to her in a dream, and she had set about putting the dream to paper first thing the next morning. The artwork was a hundred times better and more detailed than the silly crayon drawing, but the scenery wasn't that much different. It was of a man--handsome, tall, and strong looking--leaning against a rock, and in the background was the horizon, the sky, and the sun. And the man in the foreground ruled it all with a crown of gold on his head. Holly had labeled it in fine, black pen: _The Wasteland King_.

_She_ didn't believe the lands were wastes, but everyone else around her seemed to. In her mind, the world outside was a thing of beauty: blue skies; green grass; rolling mountains; sloping hills; lush forests of dark greens and muddy browns; wide lakes and oceans that shone in the sunlight and glimmered in the moonlight; flying birds and swimming fish: everything the old books had reported. It sounded so... _magical._

_It's still like that, _she thought. _Maybe the bombs changed things around a bit, but it still had to retain some of its old beauty. _

A knock came at her door. Holly frowned; her father wouldn't be getting out of the lab until much later. "Yeah?" She answered the knock cautiously. _Would Peterson go so far as to bother me at my own home?_

"Can I come in?" Ethan's voice brought relief to her ears. She called him in. "Holly, are you alright?" He began when he'd reached the foot of her bed. "Did Peterson and McMannis hurt you or anything? You know if they did... I could kick their asses or something."

Holly smiled. Ethan was sweet, but he was no kicker of asses. He was as scrawny as her, and one of the few people in her class with a brain. The two of them had been friends--her _only _friend, honestly--for as long as she could remember, and Ethan had always stayed loyal and true to it. "That's OK, Ethan," she told him as she closed her art book. The pictures inside were just for her.

Ethan gave her a lopsided smile and put his hands up. "Alright, but the offer stands. Anytime you need it! ...anyway, I just came to drop off your book. Must have missed it in the scuffle." He tossed the book down on the bed and then regarded her curiously. "Holl, are you _sure_ you're OK?"

She sighed. "It's not Peterson and McMannis, Ethan. It's... complicated."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," she answered truthfully and laid back on her bed. "I just kind of want to go to sleep and forget about it."

Ethan thought for a moment. "Is it about leaving the Vault again?"

Holly closed her eyes and she could see it: the sky; the earth; the trees; the lakes... herself. When she opened them again, Ethan was waiting for an answer. "Yes."

It was his turn to sigh. "You know, Holly..." He began, but stopped abruptly and looked down at the ground. When he looked up again, his face had changed. "Maybe you _should _just try to fall asleep and forget about it."

Holly gave a wan smile and nodded. Ethan turned and made for the doorway. When he got there, Holly remembered to say, "Don't forget your essay tonight."

He turned back to her, and his face had changed _again_. This time he looked determined and solemn, and his eyes were narrowed onto her own. "Holly... you know, there are ways other than the vault doors to get outside," he said, held his look for a moment, and left.

Long after he'd gone, Holly laid in her bed: arms behind head; eyes trained on the ceiling. She thought of his words over and over, and when she finally did manage to fall asleep, the last word in her head as she drifted into unconsciousness was _Outside_.

*******


	3. The Outcast Ghoul

**The Outcast Ghoul**

*******

**Winston**

*****  
**

It was nearly dusk when he and Burke finally made it back to Tenpenny Tower, and Winston found himself gazing upon the heaping concrete structure with thankful eyes. They'd been gone for six days; on the first, they'd tracked down that old pipe-mender Walter, and spent the other five on a wild goose chase that had left them empty-handed after the old fool took the top of his own head off with Winston's gun. Mister Burke's mood had been is steady decline since then, and it was no pleasure to spend time with the man when he was sulking. It didn't help matters that Winston had to lug around a three-by-five foot trunk that weighed over one-hundred pounds. By the time they were in the shadow on the Tower, Winston was drenched in his own sweat and smelled worse than a rotting deathclaw. Burke was neat and cool in his suit of dull grey; his eyes hidden behind the dark coverings of his sunglasses.

"Home sweet home," Burke said as he motioned to the Tower. The sight of it even seemed to lighten _his_ mood. "I must say, it's good to be back. All those scummy wastelanders can get to a man. He almost forgets what it's like to be in the presence of decency and intellect."

"_I _was with you, Burke," Winston stated, dropping his 'luggage' to the ground and wiping some sweat from his brow.

Burke threw a glance his way, and on it Winston saw a devilish grin. "So you were, ghoul. So you were."

They rested there a moment. Winston sat down on top of the trunk he'd been dragging from Megaton and bent over to lean on his knees. He lifted his eyes, panting, and looked up at the scrawny finger of stone that jutted up from the horizon, reaching for the sky: Tenpenny Tower. It never ceased to amaze him that the structure still stood after all this time, seemingly untouched by the Great War. Rows of glimmering windows atop the dull beige concrete looked down over them, winking in the sun's last light. At the roof, four concrete bulbs burst from its top like swollen bellies; out of them jutted long poles that came _that_ much closer to reaching the sky. Slightly beneath them, Tenpenny's balcony wrapped itself around the structure. Winston wondered if the old man was up there right now, looking down at them and rolling his old, dry tongue around in his mouth the way he did when he was anxious. _We've got bad news, old man. Good news is: Burke is the one who has to tell you._

"You ready ghoul? We're so close, I can smell the clean scent of the carpets." Burke was already heading toward the walled-off entrance, leaving Winston to hurry and lug the trunk behind him.

Gustavo's voice crackled through the intercom when they arrived at the front gate. "Who is it?"

"It's either Burke, or someone who sounds a lot like him," Burke said into the intercom.

"Don't shit around," came back through it.

Burke's face ran cold. "Open the fucking doors Gustavo."

The gates swung open, and then Winston was trailing along behind Burke into the double-doors of Tenpenny Tower. His eyes adjusted, and the beauty of the lobby came into focus. The triple-layered chandelier, rimmed with glass jewels and golden trimming, hung gallantly in the center of the room, bathing everything beneath it in the soft, warm glow of its light. Two rows of bronze and concrete banisters flanked it on the second floor, wrapping all the way around the room to where they curved and spilt down to the first floor in two sets of stone stairways. An old and ancient Persian rug covered a large chunk of the floor; its elaborate silver decorations shone above its maroon and violet shade. The high walls that stretched far back on either side were dotted with light fixtures and stone columns that carried the weight of the floor above.

The number of people in Tenpenny Tower had been growing significantly for the last three weeks. It was apparent as soon as you entered the lobby. Winston spotted two newcomers chatting with one another perched on the second floor. On the opposite side, he saw a row of three men on a bench listening intently to a fourth who stood in front of them speaking and gesturing with his arms. None of them had been there a month ago. On the stairs, a young man in his twenties was tagging along beside Gustavo's second-in-command, Mantz. _Training the boy, no doubt, _Winston thought as he peered around some more. There was a huddled group of men outside the bar laughing loudly and slapping each other on the back. They were drunk. _And _new. An older woman he'd never seen before with a mole covering half her face was carrying a bundle of cloth down to the back of the lobby. A younger one was following closely with her own bundle. Two men crouched between the staircases near the elevator; one was painting, the other was scrubbing the floor. A thick, dark-skinned guy was hovering above Gustavo's desk in the center of the lobby with his arms folded across his bear-like chest.

Tenpenny was gathering people: for _what_, Winston did not know.

"Mister Burke, good to see you again!" One of the new men called. "Looking sharp!" Another added. "Hello Burke," a woman with seductive eyes and makeup said and fixed her hair. More people called to the man as they strolled through the lobby. "Burke! Success in the wastes?", "Where have you been Burkey!?", "Mister Burke, your presence brightens the room!", "Hey, Burke! Welcome home!"

Everyone knew him, and everyone was _damned_ sure to greet him. Mister Burke was the head honcho in Tenpenny Tower--save for Allistair Tenpenny himself--and being on his good side was key to comfortable living. No one greeted Winston; in fact, some of the ones that had arrived since they'd been gone gave him horrified looks and disgusted grimaces. Being a ghoul living amongst fleshies, Winston was used to it. He lugged the trunk up to the front desk behind Burke.

"Do you bring good news from the wastes?" Gustavo questioned. The man's black armor and assault rifle looked as natural on him as clothes and tools looked on normal men.

"I bring _shit_-news from the wastes," Burke answered indignantly. "What news do you bring from home, I wonder Chief Gustavo."

"Nothing to report really. Actually, just picked up two more potentials out in the wastes. A younger guy and a woman. Need your approval 'fore they can come in though, of course."

Burke fumed. Winston knew how much the man hated his job of 'Candidate-Approver'. A lot of the newcomers could be permitted by Gustavo himself, but the ones that seemed dicey were all Burke's. The suited man didn't like all the new people coming in from the wastelands though, regardless of how sycophantic they were to him. "Fine. Before that though, Winston," he said, turning to face him. It was a rare thing that Burke referred to him by his name as opposed to 'ghoul' or 'ghoul-dog'. "Bring that damned trunk around back. We settle this business before any other."

"Alright," Winston agreed and stooped to grab the trunks handle. He noticed several people turn their heads at the sound of his gravelly ghoul-voice.

Back outside they went, around the side of the building, and into the training grounds beside the northern wall. A few younger guys were taking lesson from an old ex-slaver named Parch. When they looked over, Burke motioned for them to continue on as he pointed out a spot for Winston to drop the trunk. Behind them, Gustavo followed, marching over two people: a fellow that couldn't have been far out of his teens, and a woman with fiery-red hair cut boyishly short. "Damn you Gustavo, let me go about my business before you come marching these wastelanders in front of me," Burke shouted and motioned them away. The Chief shot him an annoyed look, but obeyed and led them beneath the shade of the western wall to wait.

Winston popped the latches of the trunk and swung it open. Jenny Stahl laid scrunched up inside; bound hand and foot and gagged. She squinted into the sunlight and started screaming into the rag between her teeth. Winston looked at Burke, who folded his arms and waited patiently with a bored look on his face. When Jenny was done screaming and thrashing and throwing a fit, Burke knelt down and pulled the rag from her mouth.

"FUCK YOU!" Jenny screamed when her lips were free.

"Fair enough," Burke said evenly as he wiped some spittle from his face.

"Help me! HELP!" She began screaming frantically. Burke sighed and nodded at Winston. Winston pulled his pistol, _Martha_, from his hip and fixed her silencer-wrapped nozzle in the direction of Jenny Stahl's forehead. The woman saw it and grew fearfully quiet.

"How are you dear?" Burke asked gently. "So sorry about the long, uncomfortable trip. I really _despise _doing things like that to people, but sometimes my anger gets the best of me I'm afraid." Jenny shot wide eyes between Burke and Winston's pistol. "Now, I truly hope, for your sake, that the journey has loosened your tongue a bit. Are you ready to talk about Mr. Walter's wasteland plant?"

Jenny took a visual swallow. Winston stared at her sympathetically. The poor girls face was dirty and covered in sweat, and her hair was a tangled mess around her tired eyes. What little makeup she'd had on when they took her was smeared and distorted, giving her an almost clownish appearance. Tears had began to fall from her face. "I don't know," she began, "I swear it. I _swear_ it. All I know is that Walter found a plant. He said it wasn't far from Megaton. Please. _Please._"

Burke stared at her emotionlessly; his eyes two black marbles beneath the shade of his fedora's brim and his dark sunglasses. "A warm plate of food and clean water await you inside. A hot shower. A cigarette. They're yours if you want them, Jenny. If not... my ghoul-dog is going to put a bullet right between those pretty eyes of yours."

"I don't know anything," she pleaded, sobbing, "I swear... please, I'll do anything."

Burke measured her for a long time then, and when he stood up Winston saw the decisiveness on his face. "I believe she's telling the truth," he stated, turning to face him. "Kill her, give the body to the Yao Guai, and clean out that trunk. I don't want a trace of her blood in it." He turned to head back inside, but Gustavo's troop caught his eye. "And deal with _this_," he added and disappeared around the corner of the building.

Tears streamed down Jenny's cheeks in endless streams, and her face had grown frozen in a look of terror and shock. Her eyes pleaded though, still hopeful beneath her tangle of dirty hair. "No..." She whispered; her voice had shrunk to a child's, scared and alone.

Winston sighed, looked over at Gustavo, and back at her. He lifted the pistol and aimed at her forehead. "You're sure you've got nothing to tell us?" He asked, stepping close to the woman inside the trunk. She wailed and shook her head. Winston believed her. _Damn fleshies... always crying. _"Alright... Gustavo!"

The Chief stepped from the shadows, urging his two newcomers along with him. The man looked scared to death, the woman watched him calmly. "What?" Gustavo spit as he neared.

The ghoul looked down at Jenny. "I hear you're good at running a shop, have I heard right?" Jenny's swiped tears from her eyes and quickly nodded her head. "Alright then... Gustavo, I want you to have one of your men take her to an empty suite. Have her cleaned up and her hair bleached _tonight_. I want her clothes burned to." He looked back down at the sobbing woman. "And _you_... you better learn how to walk different, _talk_ different, and keep yourself out of Burke's god-damned way for awhile. He'll forget your face in a couple of days, but until then, if he sees you and finds out about this, I'll get chewed out and you'll get dead. Understand?"

She sniffled and nodded. "Thank you."

"That's real touching ghoul," Gustavo said mockingly. "She better be a hard worker." Winston didn't need to worry about the chief: he was more loyal to Tenpenny than Burke, and he knew how unreasonable and cruel Burke could be when he was in a bad mood. "But how about the business of _these_ two so I can get them off my god damn hands?"

Winston gave the fresh meat both a once-over and folded his arms. The kid was an easier read, so Winston faced him first. "What's your story? How old are you?"

"My name is Tim Marches, and I passed my twentieth birthday last month," he answered. He was a scrawny kid, and seemed incapable of keeping his eyes on Winston's face. Most people couldn't, especially those who hadn't had much contact with ghouls. "I come from a small settlement north of the mountains."

"And why have you _left_ said settlement, I wonder Tim," Winston questioned.

Tim shifted between feet uncomfortably. "Group of raiders swept over us in the middle of the night... they killed some of us... took the rest as prisoners. They burned down whatever was left."

"And they let _you _go because..."

"They said they wanted someone to tell the story... and to spread the word of the Wasteland King."

Winston grimaced. For the last month that name had been coming up more and more frequently. _Wasteland King... what a ridiculous title. _People had been spreading rumors of a fearless raider who had been sweeping through the wastes from up near the New York ruins; pillaging all in his way with an army of hundreds. But raiders were raiders: they were stupid and disorganized and _no _man could tame them. Not even a king.

"Where are these raiders headed? And how many were there?"

"There were a few dozen, and I believe they mean to take the DC ruins," the boy still couldn't look him in the eyes.

Winston laughed. _Good. Let them and the Super Mutants wipe each other out fighting for some worthless hunk of land. As long as they stay the fuck away from here. _"Alright... now what about you? What skills do you have?"

The kid finally looked up at him, face hopeful. "I was the best cook in our settlement sir! Honest! No one can roast a mole rat like I can."

"Cooks ain't in demand. How are you with a gun?"

"I- Well- I-"

"You never used one," Winston answered for him. Tim lowered his head and nodded. "We can't take ya then kid. Sorry."

"But-" Tim began, but when Winston let his hand fall onto the butt of _Martha's _handle, he quickly closed his mouth.

"What about you?" Winston asked, turning to the woman. He measured her up, pinning her at around twenty-five. Her hair was an odd shade of red and was cut so short, you'd think she was a boy from behind. Her face was feminine though: long eyelashes; high cheekbones; a button of a nose. Winston thought she'd be cute if it wasn't for the dirt all over her face.

"My name is Abby Mayflower, sir," she began, her voice was girlish but strong. "I'm twenty-six years old, and I also have never used a gun. I was a bartender in Rivet City, but I was thrown out when they discovered I'd been drinking for free. Now I've come here seeking a second chance with Mr. Tenpenny."

"You stole some booze and they kicked you out of their city?"

"I stole over one thousand caps worth the booze."

Winston was impressed: not only did she look him in the face, but she never even broke eye contact. There was something sincere about her eyes too. "I like you kid, but right now Tenpenny is looking for experienced gunmen, not bartenders."

"Actually," Gustavo cut in from behind her shoulder, "Sal disappeared last week. Heard rumors he split for Megaton to try 'n start over. Old man Wendell's been taking up his slack at the bar, but that old fool ain't no good... got knots in his boney old fingers."

Winston turned back to Abby. Her look hadn't changed, and her eyes were still held solidly on his own. It was off-putting in a way. "I don't know if you can tell," he began, pointing to his face, "but I'm a fucking _ghoul_, you know?" A hint of smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but her look still did not break. Winston sighed. "You stole from your old employer... why wouldn't you steal from your new one?"

"Because if I did," Abby began, "I would be left with nowhere to go. And from Tim here's story, I certainly wouldn't want to run into this 'Wasteland King' and his raiders all by my lonesome self."

"There is no Wasteland King," Winston stated. "But I like the way you talk. Gustavo, find her a suite and get her to work by tonight."

Gustavo said, "She's got a pet."

Winston frowned at him, then her. "A _pet_?"

"A raven," Abby answered. "I've had the bird for many years now. He's a quiet thing. Won't cause any disturbances, sir."

"If he does-"

"I'll serve raven-stew at the bar that very night," she cut in.

Yes, it was certain: Winston liked her.

He left Gustavo with his orders, reminding him to take haste with the Jenny-situation, and escorted the young guy, Tim, to the front gate. The kid pleaded once more, but there was nothing Winston could do for him. If you didn't have a useful skill, you were dead weight, and it was almost always Winston's job to cut that weight off. He lingered, watching Tim shrink into the infinite horizon of the wastelands, and headed back inside the Tower. Mantz--a short, balding man with a thick handlebar mustache that matted the sides of his face--greeted him as he walked through the doors.

"Tenpenny wants you upstairs. Now." Mantz was also a humorless man, or else Winston would have commented on his absurd facial hair.

As he called the elevator down to the lobby floor, Winston could only imagine what the old geezer wanted now. It wasn't like it mattered though: Winston was the mans dog, or more specifically, his _ghoul_-dog. And when the master beckons, the dog obeys. Always. He sighed.

The ride took him to nearly the top floor of the Tower, where he exited the elevator and headed out onto the balcony. The wind stole his breath from him as soon as he was outside. It could kick up something fierce at the height they were perched, and it always made Winston long to be back _in_side; ghouls didn't care much for heights. Beneath the wall of pale-blue sky, Tenpenny, Burke, and two men in Talon Merc outfits were seated around a table. Steaming coffee's and smoldering cigarettes weren't very far from any of their hands. One of the mercs was talking to Tenpenny when Winston emerged, but when he saw the ghoul come out, he dropped the conversation and picked up his assault rifle instead. Winston had _Martha_ out and up in an instant; the barrel trained perfectly onto the mercs forehead.

"The fuck is this!?" The merc demanded, keeping his eyes on Winston.

_Jesus, he's another kid! Looks the same age as Miss Abby Mayflower. Whatever happened to 'with years comes experience'?, _Winston thought as he eyed down the iron sight of his gun.

"Gentleman!" Tenpenny shouted from his seat, his voice pitched in that strange, old-man's tone, "Please! Lower your weapons! This is my ghoul-dog, Winston."

The kid eased up a bit, but didn't lower his gun. "I'm surprised you let your dog that far off his leash," he said, and there was a certain hatred in his eyes as he glared in Winston's direction.

"And who holds your leash merc?" Winston retorted. "The highest bidder I suppose. I tell you what, I've got a few caps on me right now, how about I give you a hundred and you toss yourself from that balcony behind you?"

"I'd sooner throw a fucking _ghoul_ over for free," he shot back.

"Enough!" Burke's voice boomed out into the wastes as he slammed his coffee down and stood up. "Drop your God-_damned_ weapons and shut up! Both of you!"

The kid was too young to know any better than to back down, so Winston lowered his first, tucking in its place by his hip. Only then did the merc do the same. "I don't like ghouls," he added disdainfully as he cautiously sat back down.

Tenpenny was red in the face. "I've got raiders claiming they have a king and massing in the North, I've got uncooperative slavers sending me _threats_ in the East, I've got Super Mutants kidnapping people, I've got a missing plant somewhere in the wastelands, and now I have fighting on my own balcony! What has happened to this world? Can a man no longer sit from the comfort of his porch and watch it turn without worrying about the whole thing collapsing under its own weight!?"

"No, sir. My apologies," Winston said. _The master beckons; the dog obeys._

Tenpenny's ancient tongue was rolling around in his ancient mouth. "Now, listen here. These two fellows here are from the Talon Company Mercenaries, and the Talon Co. are long-standing friends to me, so I won't have them treated any less than I'd treat my own children."

The less-hostile one stood up and extended his hand. He was maybe a handful of years older than the other, but still young. He had a round face covered with locks of his thick black hair and matching beard. "I'm Paul, this here's my good partner, and hot-head extraordinaire, James." The one he'd named James remained seated; eyes cautiously trained on Winston's own. He was doing his best to look menacing, but it was hard to intimidate when your facial hair wasn't even growing in right yet. _Just a dumb kid who thinks he's got something to prove._

"According to Jabsco," Burke began, "Paul and James are the best mercenaries the Talon Co. has to offer."

"We're damn proud of that reputation too," Paul added, flashing a large smile of white teeth. He was certainly the more pleasant of the two.

"How old are you?" Winston asked. He knew the dog shouldn't ask questions, but the dog was curious.

"I'm twenty-eight. James is twenty-five. I know: we're young. But if you got the talent, you got the talent, am I right or am I right?" He grinned again and spread his arms to showcase himself. The Talon Company logo stood white against the background of his black combat armor.

"They'll be staying here tonight, ghoul," Tenpenny told him. "And first thing tomorrow morning, you're going to lead them out on a mission to find me that plant."

Winston furrowed his irradiated brow. "You hired the two best mercs Talon has to offer to help find a plant?"

Tenpenny and Burke exchanged looks. James and Paul did the same. "There's been some... developments in the wastelands since last week," Burke said. "We're not the only ones who know about this plant."

"Who else knows about it?" Winston was curious.

The merc, Paul, sighed and looked out over the balcony to the wastes below. "Raiders. Slavers. Mutants. Brotherhood. Everyone. That about covers it, I suppose."

Winston was stupefied. "How in the-"

"That slob Moriarty," Burke answered bitterly before Winston could ask. "He must have heard that old fool talking about it. He's been selling the information to anyone with the caps to pay for it."

"I want that plant!" Tenpenny yelled and slammed his fists down onto his knees. He was the oldest man Winston knew, but he was a child at heart. "_I _want it! Not anyone else! They don't deserve it! If life is going to start again out in these wastelands, I... _we_ should be the ones to control it. This raider up North who calls himself 'Wasteland King'... well I think I deserve the title more than _him_! Look at how much good I've done in this Tower for my people! What do you say Burke?"

"I agree, sir."

Tenpenny set his old eyes on Winston next. "Ghoul!?"

"Yes, sir. I agree.," Winston lied. The old man was half-senile and in no condition to rule anything.

"Well that settles it. You three find me that plant before anyone else does. I _command_ it!" Tenpenny shouted and pounded the table. He was drunk on some silly power he didn't even possess. "And anyone who gets in your way-"

"We'll have our guns so far up their asshole, they'll spit bullets," Paul stated cheerfully.

"Yes! Spit bullets!" That phrase seemed to please Tenpenny a great deal.

Winston sighed, folded his arms, and looked off into the wastes. Somewhere out in that vast horizon was a plant the size of his fist, and there was apparently a plethora of big, mean, nasty men and mutants hunting it down. Tomorrow, he'd have to throw his hat into the mix, and--worst of all--he would have to do it with some merc-kid who was probably more likely to blow the ghoul's head off then to cover his ass. Winston glanced down at James. James's eyes were narrowed onto his own. _Glare at me all you want, kid. If it comes down to me or you: trust me, it's going to be you. _He headed to his room for the night.

*******


	4. The Addicted Merc

**The Addicted Merc  
**

*******

**James**

*****  
**

"We'll have our guns so far up their asshole, they'll spit bullets," Paul shouted and clapped his hands together enthusiastically.

"Yes! Spit bullets!" The old man added eagerly. He seemed very pleased by the notion.

James glanced back at the ghoul. His ugly, irradiated face appeared concerned as he stared at Tenpenny, but he seemed to sense James' eyes on him because he turned his head to meet the look. James felt the anger rise up through his chest like a fire; just looking at the ghoul made him want to leap across the table and bury his dagger in the monsters face. _You can keep staring for now ghoul, but if three of us head out tomorrow and only two of us survive... you'll know why._

His anger was making his head feel heavy, and he suddenly craved for the sweet relief of some mentats or some buffout or some psycho or some _any_thing. He had chems in his vest pocket, but he didn't want the old man that was hiring them to think one of them was a junky. At least not until they were paid. Paul was hovering over him and giving him that 'I know what you're thinking.' look that James absolutely despised. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but relaxed a bit when he saw the ghoul turn and head back inside.

"I hope working with my ghoul-dog won't pose too much of a problem," Mr. Tenpenny began. "If I'd known you had such... _strong feelings _towards ghouls, believe me, I wouldn't have chosen him. I can still get you another man to replace your fallen comrade, of course, but know that while Winston may be a ghoul, he is one of the best combatants we have."

"You wouldn't have to worry about the ghoul-dog," Mister Burke added. There was something about the man James didn't like. "He does as he's told."

Paul looked down at him, eyes searching for any protest. When James showed none, his merc partner turned to Tenpenny and extended his hand for a shake. "Seems like we have a deal Mr. Tenpenny," he said. "Of course, with all the chaos in the wastelands lately, a down payment would sure go a long way in _sealing _said deal, if you catch my drift."

"Of course. Half now. Half upon your return with my plant." The old man was rolling his tongue around inside his mouth queerly. "I suppose that concludes are business today. You'll find your room on the fourth floor. Of course, your both welcome to go where you please. We have a number of shops on the lobby level, and our bar has more booze than any in the wastes. I can guarantee that." Paul and James exchanged an agreeing look. "And once again," Tenpenny began as he stood and stretched his old back out, "I do apologize for your loss."

James peered off the balcony into the vast wastes. They had set out from Fort Bannister with three men, but had arrived at Tenpenny Tower with only each other. The Talon Mercs were notorious for rolling in packs of threes, and _this _journey had been no different. Himself, Paul, and their recently deceased partner Jeffott had ran into a pack of raiders on their travels though, and Jeffott had been the unlucky one to catch a slug in the belly. He'd been a good merc... and a good friend.

With the meeting finished, he and Paul took the elevator down to the fourth floor, debated going to sleep for the long days work tomorrow, but decided against it at the last moment and headed to the lobby--more specifically, the bar--below to wind down and discuss things. They cut their way through the rather glorious lobby, painted in the glow of its chandelier, and made their way into the bar.

Tenpenny's tower had been full of people in the daytime when they'd arrived, and it seemed that a large portion of them had the same idea as they did: the bar was overflowing. Walls had been knocked down to accommodate for its flourishing business, stretching the bar from the front of the Tower to the very back in a long rectangle of booze and drunkards. James past a man barely standing on his own two feet, a smoldering cigarette burned down to its stub was threatening his fingers with its cherry. A tall woman with dark skin brushed past him and nearly spilt her drink on his chest. He cursed her and pushed on to the end of the bar, where seemingly the only two seats available were waiting lonely. Paul took one, he took the other. They ordered two beers from the bartender: a cute girl with a boyish haircut.

"So what do you make of 'em Jamesy?" Paul asked, opening the bottle of beer and taking a swig.

"The ancient man or his partner?"

"Either. Both."

James thought about it. He pulled a mentat from the inner-sewn pocket of his vest, pushed it between his lips, and washed it down with some beer. That would help the thinking. _It always does._ "Not sure," he admitted. _Yet.._

Paul sighed and drank more beer. "A plant out in the wastelands... can it be true? And what the hell does it mean?"

James shrugged. "Could mean a lot of things. Could mean nothing."

"Suppose you're right," Paul stated with a hearty laugh. "Assuming it _does_ mean something, though.... this planet might actually be ready to start healing itself up. Wouldn't that be something?"

Mentats worked fast, and alcohol pushing it into the bloodstream helped even more. James felt the itch in his forehead; the tightness in his eyes; the shortening of his breath. He was coming alive under the drugs control. "Planet healing itself?" He questioned, turning to his merc partner. "Why would it go and do a thing like that? Look around us, Paul. If this planet needs to do anything, it needs to _hurt_ itself. Get rid of the virus that's grown all over it."

Paul frowned at him. His friend knew about James' addiction, and he damn-sure knew when the drugs were kicking in. "You're talking about us? People? Human beings?"

"Mutants and fucking _ghouls_ too," James added, swigging his beer. He really didn't like ghouls; even saying the _word_ ghoul lit that familiar fire in his chest. "What the wastelands needs is a reboot, not a second chance."

Two men in the corner of the bar had been arguing since they sat down, and now their voices had grown loud and hostile. James glanced over and saw them stand, each man staring the other down in a match of bravery. _And stupidity. _The smaller one took a sudden swing at the taller one, but he ducked it, picked up a bottle, and crashed it over his foes head. They wrestled for a bit more before stopping, looking at each other, and began to laugh their asses off. _These men don't deserve a second chance at _any_thing, _James thought and took a swig of beer.

"Maybe you're right," Paul said thoughtfully as he pulled his gaze from the fighting men. "Doesn't matter though, we ain't the ones to decide such things. Tomorrow we need to find that plant before some shit-eating mutant does... or god-forbid this 'Wasteland King' and his raiders. I wouldn't trust a man who calls himself king. Nope. Wouldn't trust him one bit."

"Well this is a lively conversation over here," the bartender girl began as she appeared from beneath the bar cleaning out a glass. "Kings and plants... much more interesting than the usual talk you hear floating around a place like this."

James shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Paul only widened his smile and pushed the empty beer bottle in her direction. If it had been a few days earlier, they'd both be shot for talking about such things freely--let alone in a bar--, but now the entire wastes were buzzing with talks of plants and kings and bullshit and _more_ bullshit. James didn't buy in to much any of it. He was just looking to be paid. "What concern is it of yours?" He asked the girl. Her short hair was an odd shade of red, almost like fire, but her eyes were in stark contrast: soft and blue.

"I'm the bartender," she replied with a grin. "And you're speaking at my bar. That about makes it my concern, don't you agree?"

He opened his mouth to retort, but Paul cut in. "Fair enough," he cooly diffused the situation. "Now, in all fairness, a bartender should _share_ gossip. So I ask... what have _you_ heard, ma'am?"

"Abby," she corrected. "Abby Mayflower."

"Paul the Merc," he introduced himself with a grin and nodded in James' direction. "My partner: _James _the Merc!"

"Well Paul the Merc and James the Merc, nice to meet you. Same last name; you two brothers?" She joked.

Paul laughed and slapped his thigh. James felt sick. Between the two of them, Paul had always been the outgoing, loud, talkative one that everyone seemed to like. He joked often and made friends easy, and that was just _Paul_. James was his best friend, but they couldn't be more different. He kept to himself mostly, avoiding people when possible and always more interested in the business of his Talon Merc Company than its pleasure. He noticed her eyes on his own, the mentats running thickly through him now, and shoved his empty beer in her direction. "We're not brothers," he answered her. "And I'm empty."

Her lip twisted. "Not much of a sense of humor on this one, huh?" She questioned as she fetched two fresh beers from beneath the bar.

"He's a vault dweller, what can you expect?" Paul answered, and James shot him an annoyed look. He was always giving out information like it was going out of style.

"Really?" Abby Mayflower said, sounding genuinely interested. "You came from a vault?"

James would have knocked Paul on his ass for that, but the mentats were on him strong then, and he figured Paul must have known. "A long time ago."

"Been a wastelander like the rest of us for... what? Ten years now?" Paul asked, downing a large gulp of beer.

"Something like that," James answered, eager to move the conversation anywhere else. He faced the bartender. "Are you going to share anything yourself, or do you just get off on hearing other people's stories?"

Abby grinned. "You speak of plants and king and vaults. I don't know anything about any of that. Although... I hear this Wasteland King is a charming person. Raised an army of raiders, is that the tale?"

"Them's the tales," Paul agreed. "_King, _hah! Why would any man want to rule these wastes? I heard a saying once that went: 'You can rule all the shit in the world, but at the end of the day, you'd still only be the king of shit!'." He laughed loudly at that. "I say, let 'em have it."

"I say the Talon Company should set their sites on _him_ next," James said. The mentats and booze had loosened his tongue, or else he'd never had spoke so freely in front of a stranger. "It doesn't matter if he's crazy or genius. A man with an army is a dangerous man regardless."

"Drink to that," Paul agreed and raised his bottle. Abby the bartender seemed to enjoy listening to them.

"What if this raider king means to make things better?" She asked. "What if this king could change the wastes for good? Does the king deserve to die then?"

"You call him a king as if he's already got a throne," James replied. "And no man wants power for the good of others. They want it to _wield _it, and make things better for them _self_." _Why am I telling her so much? Paul's influence. And mentat influence. _"Anyway... it's getting late. We have work to do tomorrow." He glanced at Paul.

"That we do," Paul agreed and pushed some caps onto the bar. "Good meeting you Abby Mayflower."

"Same to you, Paul." She turned her look from one merc to another. "Goodnight James."

He gave a small nod, not caring for the way her eyes laid so casually on his own, and stood to leave with his partner. The booze and drugs made him float, and before he knew it, he was crashing in the bed Tenpenny had promised on the fourth floor. Sleep came easy, and in his dreams he saw a man with a crown on his head: laughing as laid claim to all the wastes.

*******

He awoke the next day sharp and sudden; the mentats would do that to you. Paul was already showering in the bathroom, and he found himself longing to change from the stale-smelling clothes and armor he wore to take a shower of his own. Tenpenny had promised his water was the least-radiated in the wastes, but James doubted that. So far, Tenpenny's shit stank just as bad as anyone else's.

"Jamesy," Paul called, walking out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. "You're up, and by the smell of ya - you better hurry." He laughed at his own joke.

The water wasn't any cleaner than any he'd bathed in before, but it was hot, and sometimes hot water could go a long way. He stood beneath the shower head letting the water and steam blanket him as he opened his palm and shoveled the two tablets of jet he had into his mouth. He dry swallowed, tilted his head back, and let streams of water rush down his face as the drug began to set in. Jet was always good for a morning snack. It made you forget about being hungry; firing off all the circuits in your central nervous system and waking up the entire body in a rush of energy. Mentats were a good follow-up, and if you were sore from the day before, nothing killed the pain like a couple of Med-X.

An amount of time passed that James couldn't be sure of before Paul was banging at the door. "Are you getting stoned in there? Hurry your ass up James! The ghoul is already downstairs!"

The _ghoul._ James grimaced, a spark of anger burning in the pit of his stomach, but then he popped a mentat, dressed in his Talon combat armor, and headed out into the hall to meet his partner anyway.

Tenpenny Tower was late to bed, late to rise. It was a much more quiet, subdued atmosphere as they took the elevator to the ground floor and strolled through the lobby. A spattering of people were grouped around the big, double doors that served as the entrance, but for the most part it was quiet. They slid past the group and pushed through the doors. At the main gate, the ghoul was waiting in his grey suit and dark fedora. James wondered if he dressed like the Burke fellow on purpose, or if that was one of the dog's commands. The ghoul's gun--the one that had been pointed at James' forehead not twelve hours earlier--was exposed on the creatures hip. _Fool. Only an amateur would go toting his gun around so carelessly, _James thought. _All I would have to do is stick his right arm with a well-placed stab of my dagger and his gun becomes useless beneath his left arm. _The mentats coursed through him.

Another guy was standing beside the ghoul. The man who'd greeted them when they had arrived the day before. He called himself Chief of Security, though James didn't understand what exactly he was 'securing'.

"Morning," the Chief named Gustavo called, "Good luck on your travels today."

"Who needs luck when you've got big fucking guns strapped to your back?" Paul joked and slapped the Chief on the arm. The man didn't seem to find it funny.

"You're transportation is quite clever. Impressive too," The ghoul called Winston said. James hated the sound of a ghoul-voice. It was so gravelly and unpleasant on the ears. "Chief Gustavo was kind enough to get it all ready for us, so if you two are prepared to leave..."

James didn't like the idea of strangers putting hands on their transportation, but it was too late to fume now. He and Paul followed the ghoul and chief out the front gates and to the side of the Tower.

The Yao Guai were snapping at each other and low, guttural growls filled the air. James hated the stink of Yao Guai almost as much at the sound of a ghoul, but the beasts were strong and--after much training at Fort Bannister--obedient.

There was six of them in total; each of their necks fitted with a heavy steel collar that attached one to the other, forming a tight pack that could not be separated. It was Jabsco's brain-child, and it worked well: if just _one_ of the bear-beasts tried lashing out or running, the other five would be pulled and forced to use their strength to reel it back in. Behind them, the front half of a Nuka-Cola semi-trailer towered up fifteen feet in the air; the trucks cabin and air dam were shimmering steel beneath the Sun's light. A trailer would have been too much for the Yao Guai, so the back half was nothing more than an empty square of metal and bolts. Thick chains attached the pack of bear-beasts to the truck - a relic of the old world when vehicles still cut across the land and hideous mutants and ghouls were nowhere to be seen. James wondered what that world was like, and if he'd ever get a chance to see it.

"You're sure this is safe?" The ghoul questioned, stepping wide to put distance between himself and the Yao Guai. "How well are the beasts trained?"

"Safest, easiest, and _quickest_ transportation in the wastelands, my friend," Paul exclaimed as he jumped up to the drivers seat, pulled the door opened with a squeak, and waved his hand.

Chief Gustavo wished them luck again before heading back inside, and then they were left alone with Winston. James opted to ride outside on the tail of the semi, not exactly _eager_ to be cooped up in the cab with the ghoul, and Paul agreed. He gave Winston a quick rundown of how to 'pull'. The steering was a two-man process: a thick chain ran to each window and coiled there around the inside of the door. Pulling on the chain tugged the lead Yao Guai in the corresponding direction, effectively steering the whole rig where it needed to go. All Jabsco's invention. James admired the Merc leader; always so smart and fearless.

"Ready back there Jamesy?" Paul shouted.

"Yes," he answered.

Then the rig was moving; slowly at first, but when the Yao Guai began to spill down the gentle slope of the hill, they were cruising. The morning air pushed into James' face as he gripped a steel rod beneath his legs. When they emerged from the shadow of Tenpenny Tower, James glanced up at it. Undoubtedly, it would be the last time he ever saw it. What they were planning to do to old man Tenpenny would--to say the least--_upset_ him. James allowed a slight grin to crawl over his face. _And when we find that plant... _your _time is up as well ghoul. _If anyone was going to rule the wastes, it would be Jabsco. It would be the Talon Company Mercenaries.

James popped some jet as their truck rolled on into the wastelands.

He felt good.

*******


	5. The 'Hero' of the Wastes

**The 'Hero' of the Wastes**

*******

**Oliver**

*****  
**

Oliver crawled slowly along the sun-baked rock, using only his elbows and knees to drag himself up its gradual slope. His small body was practically flat against it, so when his line of sight broke the top, he knew that only the very tip of his head could be seen. He spotted his target, floating about without a clue, a hundred feet away. His arms moved slowly as he set his hunting rifle on the rim of the rocks edge, and cautiously slid it back and forth, gradually entrenching the barrel into the tiny groove he was creating. When he was satisfied, he blew out a deep breath and closed one eye as he lowered his face down behind the iron sights.

The bloatfly looked oblivious and stupid as it hovered around the corpse of the mole rat; its slimy, pupiless eyes fixed on its soon-to-be meal. The soft buzzing sound of its wings seemed to be the only noise in the entire wastes. Oliver let his finger fall over the gun's trigger and gave it a slight squeeze; only enough to ready its shot at a moments notice. He aimed. He held his breath.

He pulled the trigger and the bloatfly dropped to the ground dead as the wastes filled with the resounding BANG of his hunting rifle. Max was speeding out to the corpse in an instant, the dog's soft brown hair trailing behind him as he went.

Oliver got up and stood on the top of the rock with his rifle slung over his shoulder and a wide grin on his face. "Max," he called down to the mutt, "Bring it here boy." Max snatched the bloatfly's corpse from the ground and quickly trotted back to him. "Good boy," he said, patting the dogs head as he knelt to take his catch from Max's mouth.

For a boy of only eleven years old, Oliver sure thought he was a good hunter. He tossed the bloatfly in his knapsack to join the two dead mole rats and dead radscorpion that resided there, and wiped his hands off on his pants. Max loyally sat beside his feet wagging his tail and watching him intently with his big, hazel eyes. Oliver dug into his pocket and revealed a snack. Max's eyes centered on it as his entire body frozes and his big, sloppy pink tongue licked his lips. "You earned it." Oliver told him and tossed it down. Max devoured it in less than a second.

He searched the surrounding area from his position atop the rock: nothing on the horizon but busted up vehicles and scraggly bushes. He sighed and looked up at the sun. Holding his fingers between the bottom of it and the earth, Oliver counted nearly eight fingers full of daylight left. That was nearly two hours. He looked back towards Little Lamplight and figured the journey back would take him at least over an hour.

"Decisions, decisions..." He put his hands on his hips and looked down at Max. "What do you think? What would Grognak The Barbarian do in this situation?" Max whined and ducked his snout under his paw. Oliver frowned at him. "Oh, what do you know? Onwards! While we still have the light!" Oliver hopped down from the rock, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and whistled a melodic tune as he walked along the wastes. Max barked and followed closely behind.

They went on that way for a good while; never seeing a damn thing except for a stray dog that stuck its tale between its legs when they got near and scampered off. The wastes seemed particularly empty. They marched past a downed Nuka-Cola truck, but the back of it had already been raided clean out; the only thing left inside was a bent tin can and a acid-leaking fission battery. After some more empty travels, Oliver eventually counted his fingers below the sun again and discovered he was down to only six.

He sighed and stopped walking. "Maybe we outta go back, boy," he told Max. "Even Grognak probably knew when to call it quits." Max panted and wagged his tail in agreement.

Voices--loud and guttural--spilt over the crest of the hill to the south. Oliver's eyes widened and Max's tail stiffened as they both trained their ears on the sound. "Come on!" Oliver suddenly commanded, realizing how close the voices were to breaching the top of the hill. He led the dog to a nearby vehicle--the tires melted off; the metal rusted and rotted away to practically nothing--and ducked behind it. He pulled Max close and scratched his chest: the dog's favorite spot. "Calm down boy," He soothed the mutt. "Just relax." He craned his neck back and spied through the passenger-side window.

Super Mutants. The biggest, ugliest, smelliest, and--unfortunately--toughest beasties in the wastelands. Oliver bit his lip and pulled Max a little closer. Two of the hulking Muties came over the top of the hill standing side-by-side and carrying assault rifles; their long, muscular legs leaving loud thumps in the ground as they walked. Another two weren't far behind; they carried hunting rifles like his own. At the trail end of the party was a particularly large Mutie wearing a black helmet and a vest. He had a shotgun strapped to his back and a thick rope was slung over his shoulder. After he'd made a little progress down the front side of the hill, what he was dragging along came into view.

It was a line of people; their hands bound in front of them, their feet attached together with a short length of rope that only allowed them baby steps, and all down the line, the rope that the big Mutie was hauling was looped around each of their necks. There was a young man with a brown, cropped haircut at the head of the line, behind him was a much older man with a thin, unkempt beard that flowed down to the top of his chest. Behind the old timer was a pretty woman with short blonde hair, and behind her were two men dressed in slaver outfits. The one behind the woman had a scarred cheek and a wide grin. The slaver at the end of the line had dark skin and a tattoo covering most of his face.

Oliver ducked down low to the ground; from where he was he could smell the stink coming off the Super Mutants. _What the hell do those Muties want with those Mungos?_, he wondered as he dared another peek through the window.

The old man with the beard was noticeably slowing them down. Every few steps he would stutter and almost trip, but he seemed to use the rope around his neck to regain his balance and fall back in line. The blond woman behind him was tugged forwards every time, but she didn't seem to mind much. He saw the scarred man get up close behind the woman and put his hands down near her butt. She _did_ seem to mind that, but when she went to turn, the rope around her neck jerked her forwards. The tattoo-face laughed and patted the scarred man on the shoulder.

They were just passing by Oliver's car, when the old timer suddenly collapsed to his knees, and Oliver saw the whole line of people suffer for it. The two in front were choked backwards, and the two slavers behind were lurched forward. The big Mutie with the helmet turned around when he noticed the tug on the rope. He saw the old man and let out a loud grunt. The other four Muties stopped and turned.

Max began a low growl and seemed fidgety beside Oliver. The boy kept scratching his chest and petting his head. He swallowed a lump in his throat and looked back through the window.

"What's the matter with him!?" The helmet Mutie demanded. Oliver hated the sound of Super Mutant's voices. They always sounded so thick, and rotten, and filled with hate and tar. "Him! What's wrong with him!?" The Mutie demanded again as it walked down the line towards the old man. When none of the other four answered, the Mutie pulled out a shotgun and cocked it.

"He's just too old," The blond woman piped up. "It's not his fault."

The Mutie backhanded her for her troubles and then grabbed the old timer by his throat. He seemed to study his face a moment before finally releasing him. The Mutie took a step back and aimed the shotgun at him.

"He's not worth your ammo! Look at him, he's not going anywhere!" The woman suddenly shouted. The Mutie backhanded her again, this time dropping her to her knees. The younger guy in front helped her back up and tried comforting her by putting his hands on her face.

The Mutie had turned his attention back to the old man. "She's right. Let him loose. Leave him for the Yao Guai." One of his Mutie brethren called back to him. The big one grunted, hesitated, but then unwrapped the rope from around the old mans neck. When he was freed, he collapsed to the ground. The Mutie flipped the shotgun around and brought it down on his legs like a hammer. Oliver covered his mouth as he heard a loud SNAP and witnessed the mans leg bend in an unnatural way. "Move!" The Mutie shouted and the four remaining prisoners were quick to obey.

Oliver watched them pass his little hideout, and then they were shrinking into the horizon to the north. The black man with the tattoo-face casually glanced over in his direction as he passed, and Oliver yanked his head down.

When they were a good distance away, Oliver rushed out from behind the car and went to the old man who'd they left on the ground. He tried everything he could not to look at the mans twisted leg, but couldn't help to sneak a peek when he got close. The ancient mungo squinted up at him as he approached. His face was streaked with pain and sweat; his hands grasped at the air, and what little muscles he had on his arms tightened. "William? William my boy? You came to bring me water," his raspy voice whispered hopefully.

"My name is Oliver," Oliver told him, knelt beside him, and shook his outstretched hand. The man's face scrunched up in confusion. "And I don't have any water." The old timer coughed and groaned. Oliver reached into his knapsack and pulled out the bloatfly corpse. The man seemed to be terrified of it, as if it were a ghost. "This is the closest thing I have," Oliver told him and unsheathed the small dagger strapped to his calf. He stuck the dead bloatfly in the stomach, in the specific area he knew would produce what he was looking for. The white, heavy mucus their pouches were lined with began dripping to the ground. Oliver watched it patiently and said, "OK, get ready for it." A stream of water began trickling out from the bloatfly's punctured stomach. Oliver held it over the old mans mouth who--after a horrified expression--drank it up gratefully.

"How... how did you do that?" The man asked when the water had ran dry. His lips and chin were moist with what he'd missed. "It's a miracle."

Oliver put the bloatfly corpse back in his bag. "No miracle. Bloatfly's have small bodies, and can only absorb so much water from their food and drinks. They need a nearly-constant supply though, so they store what they can't use in pouches in their stomachs. You're just lucky that was a fresh one, or you would have been chugging down all mucus."

The old timer gave a warm smile and reached his hand out to touch Oliver's face. "Smart boy," he said. "Thank you son."

Oliver looked down at him and forced a smile back. He didn't really know what to think of the old guy. He knew what the fellas back at Little Lamplight would think. They sort of had a saying when it came to mungos, specifically: _Don't trust them_. MacCready would especially give it to him if he found out he was helping a mungo. Oliver could practically hear his voice back at Lamplight: _Humans ain't to be trusted, Ollie! When you get old, you get _wicked_. They ain't our friends, not any of 'em. _Oliver didn't think _this_ one seemed so bad.

"Where are those Muties taking the others?" Oliver asked. He glanced towards the horizon and saw Max had taken a defensive stance between them and the gang of Super Mutants down the path. They were nearly out of sight. When the man didn't respond, Oliver looked down and discovered him asleep. He put his fingers up to the mungo's throat just to check ,and sure enough, a pulse beat steadily there.

He stood up, put his hands on his hips, and scanned the area. _Now what?_, he thought to himself. His eyes found the busted-up car he'd hidden behind and it was clear to him. "Max," he called to the dog. When they were together, he pointed to the mans shoulder and made a pinching motion with his hand. Max instantly took the mungo's shirt in his mouth and looked up at Oliver patiently. "Slowly boy," He commanded, and then the two of them were carefully dragging the man towards the car.

They got him to it, and managed to get him inside the backseat without the ancient mungo so much as stirring. His broken leg was matted with blood though, and Oliver knew he would need some sort of medical aid in the next twenty-four hours, or he would become infected and probably die. He thought to take him to Little Lamplight. Surely, the others wouldn't turn away an old, helpless mungo like this one. _But what about those other mungos?, _he thought. _Grown-ups are certainly no friends to Lamplight, but Muties are sworn enemies._

His heart raced at the thought of following their trail. It would be just like Grognak the Barbarian on one of his adventures! He could beat the bad guys up and save the girl and be a real hero, just _like _Grognak! He pulled his hunting rifle up to his shoulder and pretended to shoot Muties. "Pow! Bang! Got one Max!" He cheered and pretended to duck some return fire. Max wagged his tail, but was otherwise indifferent to the imaginary gunfire.

When Oliver was done blasting Muties, he put his hand up to the sky again and counted off four fingers: one hour of light left. He needed more than that just to get back home. _Grognak wouldn't be scared of the dark. _"What do we do Max? You wanna follow them Muties?" He asked. The dog stood up and barked as he wagged his tail excitedly. Oliver grinned from ear to ear. "I'll come back for ya old timer," he told the mungo and patted him on the chest, even though he was still sleeping.

They headed into the wastes. "What are we going to do to them when we catch 'em?" Oliver asked Max excitedly as he twirled his gun around in his hands. Max barked. "Shhh! Not so loud! You want to get caught before we even find out where they're going?" Max whined and lowered his snout to sniff the ground. Oliver didn't see the party of muties and mungos anymore, but he knew they had simply crossed over the crest of the sloping hill ahead. He pulled out a map from his knapsack as they walked and looked it over. There was nothing charted for a good while in the direction they were heading. He bit his lip and thought it over. "We could be out here all night, Max. Hope your brave enough like me." He stated, but swallowed nervously and hoped Max didn't see. The thought of running into a gang of Super Mutants in the middle of the night made his skin crawl.

He thought of the pretty blond instead, and the young guy in front of her. They seemed alright: for _mungos_, of course. The two in the back were definitely slavers though. They were dressed more neatly than your typical raider: outfitted in the same grey and black armor that Penny back at Lamplight had talked about when she was rescued from Paradise Falls. They were trouble--maybe just as much as the Muties--and Oliver knew he'd have to be careful around them. Slavers didn't care if you were a mungo trying to hurt them, or a kid trying to help them, they only saw people as profit.

By the time he neared the top of the hill, Oliver didn't even have to check the sun, he knew the day was down to two fingers of sunlight. When he did reach it, however, he looked down into the valley below and realized his travels were over.

A large, concrete building with its third floor blown nearly to pieces stood erect in the dip of the valley. Slabs of stone had fallen onto the surrounding area, the front of which was enclosed in a ten-foot high fence with barbed wire running along the entire length of it. Sand bags had been set up as cover points all along the inner wall of the fence, and the large front doors were flanked by two Super Mutants in armor. Another Mutie was pacing the third floor; disappearing then reappearing as he passed the broken concrete walls that once held a roof over themselves. Another Mutie was sitting on a chair outside the fence clutching a sledgehammer. The windows were barred over and all shut, save for the one on the second floor that yet _another _Mutie was looking out of with a long-barreled rifle.

Oliver dropped to the ground and scooted backwards away from the top of the hill. Max lowered himself to the ground and followed. "Geeze, look at the place!" He exclaimed and wiped the sweat from his brow. His adventure had suddenly taken a very _real_ turn. "It's a Super-Fortress!" He whisper-shouted and his thoughts turned to issue number nineteen of Grognak: the one in which the barbarian warrior had to storm a super-fortress full of bad guys to avenge his dead brother. In the comic, Grognak had stormed the front entrance to the fortress and laid waste to everything in his path. Oliver didn't think that was the best course of action for _him_.

He sighed and looked up at the sky. It was already losing its color as the sun neared the horizon. "No going back now, I guess." He looked over at Max and scratched his chest. "We can be heroes boy! Real heroes of the wastelands! Even _MacCready _won't be able to call me 'shrimp-o' anymore," He told the dog, although he wasn't sure if he was convincing Max, or himself. Max panted and watched him talk. "You stay here while I circle around and see if there's any way inside." The mutt whined and licked Oliver's face. "Knock it off!" He said and wiped his face dry. "I'll be back in a little bit. If I'm not... well... you better go on back home. Give me some time though, OK boy?"

When Oliver stood, Max caught his pants gently in his bite and tugged at him. "Would you _stop_? I'll be right back!" He assured the dog and pet his head. Max reluctantly released him, whined, and sat down.

He crouched near to the ground as he began to circle around to the west side of the building. His hand grazed along the ground: his way of keeping himself low, and his head was only near enough to the top of the hill to see the broken third floor of the building. He watched the south side of the building disappear, and the west one come into view. With the sinking sun at his back, he had a good, wide-eyed view of it. Down below, set into the lowest spot on the concrete, was a tiny, rectangular basement window. He squinted and saw there was no bars covering it, after all why would there be? Nothing could fit in that... except, of course, for himself.

He took a deep breath and turned to face the sunset. _Can I?_, he wondered. He thought of returning to Little Lamplight with his crummy mole rats and radscorpion, and how plain and boring that would be, and how _that_ wouldn't change anything. Then he thought of returning with the story of 'Oliver: The Hero of the Wastes', and saving those people and maybe even taking down a Mutie or two. Everyone would respect him then. Even MacCready. Plus, those mungos seemed nice. If he could save them... if he could something really nice for _them_... maybe one day they would adopt him from Little Lamplight before he was too old and got the boot.

_What!?,_ Mayor MacCready's voice exploded in his head. _You want to LEAVE Little Lamplight!? To go live with some two-timing mungos!? Shrimp-O, you have lost your shrimpy little mind!_

Oliver looked down at the dirt and kicked it a bit. "I'm not a shrimp-o..." He said to no one and looked at the little window on the building. "And I can leave whenever I want... I'm... I'm the hero of the wastes!"

He marched down the hill with new-found bravery and quickly rushed over to the basement window. He peered inside and didn't see a thing except a dirty, dark room. _Perfect!, _he thought and yanked it open.

He slipped inside.

*******


	6. The Whore of the Wastes

**The Whore of the Wastes**

*******

**Sadie**

*****  
**

The sound of Thompson's leg breaking resounded in Sadie's mind well after they had left him behind. The poor old guy was one of the most descent slaves she'd known; he never had an unkind word for anyone. The Super Mutants didn't care about things like that though, in fact, Sadie wasn't quite sure _what_ they cared about. All she knew was that they were leading them somewhere, and she was scared-to-death to find out where.

The sun was nearing the horizon as their troop was led across the wastes. The rope that was looped around their necks had chafed Sadie's skin and left it feelings sore and itchy. Her wrists were bound in front of her, useless, and the rope the Mutants used to attach their ankles had turned walking into an arduous chore. Her throat felt dry and longing for water, and it didn't help that it seemed she was losing a gallon of water a minute in sweat beneath her clothing. She'd seen what the Super Mutants had done to Thompson when he'd fallen over; she didn't think her treatment would be any better if she slipped as well.

Timik's hand gripped her ass again and she instinctively jerked away, causing the rope around her neck to bite into her flesh. She cursed under her breath at the slaver-scum and wondered what kind of terrible luck she must have fallen on to be stuck in front of him. She frowned and pressed her teeth together, hissing over her shoulder, "Knock it off, Timik. I swear-"

"Oh, don't act like you don't like it Sexy Sadie," he jested with a short laugh. "I can't wait till these god-damned Mutants take the ropes off so we can get more... _comfortable _together." He chuckled behind her, and she heard that idiot, Karn, laugh as well.

Sadie had known the two of them the entire ten years she had been a 'worker' at Paradise Falls. When she was snatched away from her family at the ripe old age of eighteen, Timik had actually been one of the friendliest of the lot. Back then, he was a young, twenty-six year old man who, honestly, wasn't half-bad looking. The years hadn't treated him kindly though, and now he was a middle-aged idiot with an uglier-than-sin scar covering half his face.

"Sexy Saaaaadie," he teased, "you know this could be our last night together if these Mutants are taking us where I think they're taking us. One more time together won't hurt... much!" He cackled his throaty, smokers cackle.

She hated that name, and he knew it. "I'd sooner tear your cock off," She told him over her shoulder and kept marching. She _had_ slept with him many times over the years, but she'd be damned if she was going to even get _near_ him now that she was a partially-free woman. _Who are you kidding, Sadie? You aren't anything _close_ to free, _she thought and tugged at the ropes around her wrists.

The Super Mutants led them up to the top of a slowly sloping hill. Sadie looked West and saw the sun beginning to lower over the mountains. It would be dark in another hour or so, and then they'd be alone, at night, with the Mutants. She shivered at the thought and looked up the line at Benji.

It was Benji who she felt the worse for. Her poor, dear brother who'd come to rescue her; the same green-eyed sweetheart that she was taken from all those years ago when he was just a little, innocent boy. He'd gotten caught up in this whole mess now, and she was helpless to help her baby brother out.

"Benj," she called up to him. He turned his head around and smiled at her, looking just like the little boy who she was taken away from when they were kids. Even though he was nearly a man grown now, his face hadn't aged a day over ten somehow. "We're going to be OK." She assured him and returned the smile. The rope around his neck jerked him forward.

When they crossed the top of the hill, she stared down in horror at the building below. It was a jagged, war-torn looking thing with three floors: the top one ripped apart, leaving it roofless. Super Mutants awaited them at the doors, which were surrounded by a tall, barbed wire fence. Sadie nervously swallowed and looked it up and down as they approached. Living with the Slavers for the last ten years had opened her eyes to a lot of the horrors of the wastes, but she'd never seen a Super Mutant stronghold. _Poor Benji, _she thought, _why didn't you just stay in Rivet City!? Where it was safe!_

The Super Mutants led them down the dip of the valley and through the large fence opening in the front. A particularly ugly Mutant sat guard there holding onto a sledgehammer. His stench filled Sadie's nose as she passed him, and before she knew it, the doors to the building were opened and their troop was led inside.

While she was thankful to be out of the scorching suns fury and into the cooler corridors of the building, Sadie was scared to death. Her eyes slowly adjust to the much darker setting, and the dreary, grey look of the interior didn't do anything to help her fears. They were led past an open door in the hall, and, stealing a glance inside, Sadie saw two Mutants standing over a practically naked man on the floor. His look caught hers, and his eyes widened as he opened his mouth to say something, but then a Mutant slammed him in the chest with the barrel of a rifle. He let out a shrill cry, and then the doorway disappeared behind her as she was led further along. As fear gripped her chest, she rubbed her useless hands together, wishing more than ever they weren't bound.

They turned a corner, went down a hall filled with closed doors, passed a radroach digging through an empty bag of food, and were led down a set of stairs that U-turned halfway into another set of stairs. Another shrill cry made Sadie jump, and she heard Timik behind her say, "Calm down baby, I know what will relax ya,", and cackled. She bit her lip to keep herself from retorting; she didn't want to risk upsetting the Mutants, especially not now that they'd been led into this basement. Somehow, being underground scared her the most.

The four of them were hauled through a doorway and into a large, wide room with two prison cells set into the walls adjacent to each other. The big Mutant with the shotgun commanded the smaller one to untie their necks, which he did. Sadie rolled her head thankfully when the itchy rope was finally pulled over her head. When Benji's was off, he turned to her and gave her a worrisome look. She mouthed the words, 'It's OK.', and stood beside him, thankful to put some distance away from Timik's wandering hands. The big Mutant pulled a keychain off his belt and walked around the room, opening up both cells. When the task was done, he looked over the four of them.

"I don't want those two together," he said, pointing at Timik and Karn. "Split 'em up!"

Timik was quick to move to her brother's side. Benji looked at him strangely. "Yeah!" Timik began, leaning up against Benji. "Don't stick me in there with that one! He stinks!" He pointed at Karn and brought his bound hands up to pinch his nose. "I'll be better with my buddy here!" He patted Benji on the arm.

"Buddy?" Benji echoed in confusion and tried jerking away from Timik.

"Those two. And those two," the big Mutant commanded, pointing to Benji and Karn, Timik and herself.

"Timik," Sadie hissed through clenched teeth. The conniving asshole had gotten what he wanted: the same cell as her. The smaller Mutant began nudging her into the nearest cell, causing her to have to hop to catch up with the longer strides her bound legs couldn't give her. Timik hopped in alongside her, mocking her with a wide grin on his face.

When everyone was securely locked up, the mutants left them. Sadie snapped her head towards Timik. "You jackass! They're going to _kill_ us, and you're playing _games_?"

"Relax, kid," he told her and doubled over to reach into his boot. When he came back up, he was holding a tiny razor. "I've got a plan."

She opened her mouth in surprise, but then turned her attention to Benji in the other cell. He looked terrified of Karn, who was leaning against the wall with his head back looking bored. "Benji. Are you alright? I promise you we're going to get out of this. I promise you." He forced an awkward smile and nodded his head, keeping an eye on Karn beside him.

Sadie remembered how good it had felt when she'd seen his face for the first time in ten years and recognized who he was. She had ran into his arms and embraced him so tightly he coughed. When she pulled away, she had to search his eyes again to make sure it was really him, and when she decided it was, she pulled him into an even tighter hug. Being Paradise Falls whore, when she had been led into the small, dark love-shack in the middle of the night and shoved inside, she'd expected Nazz, or Remo, or Timik, or even Natalie, who would call on her 'services' from time to time when she was drunk or blitzed on jet. But no. It had been _him_. Her brother. When she finally released him from her grip, he explained how he had tracked her for the last six months, following the trail to Paradise Falls. He told her how he'd spied the slavers coming and going for days before he managed to catch one, kill him, and take his clothes. He told her how he asked around about her to find her, and that was when Sadie realized he knew she was a whore. "Benji," She had said, going red in the face. "They _make _me do this, you know?" He smiled and told her he knew, but they weren't going to _make _her do anything anymore. He had come to rescue her, and, for the most part, he had succeeded. They made it an hour out into the wastes before Timik and Karn had caught them. Karn wanted to put a bullet in Benji's head for trying to kidnap her, but Sadie pleaded with Timik and explained how they were siblings, and Timik said the kid might make a good slave some day. When they were marching back to Paradise Falls, they ran into the Super Mutants: outgunned and outnumbered. They surrendered.

Now they were here.

"Ta-Da!" Timik exclaimed as he showed them all the razor and spread his newly-freed hands out to his sides. He bent over and untied his ankles.

"That's wonderful, but how does the 'Great Timik' suppose we're going to get out of these cells with no keys?" Sadie asked him.

"Get out of the cells?" He echoed and pulled off his shirt. "I never said nothin' bout that. I said I had a plan, and oh baby I do."

"What!?" She barked and looked up at him. He grinned and came at her. "Timik!" She cried out, but then his hand was over her mouth. She swatted at him with her own hands, but he grabbed them and forced them down. She breathed hard, angry breaths of air through her nose and glared at him.

"Karn, old pal," He called to the tattoo-faced slaver over his shoulder without taking his eyes off her. "Be a dear and do me a favor. If Miss Sadie here doesn't stay quiet and cooperate, would you please strangle her little brother to death?"

He took his hand off her mouth and she shot a look at Benji. "No!" she cried and shook her head in fear for her brother's life. Karn smirked and looked at Timik. Timik shrugged and motioned to her. She stared at him, horrified and in disbelief. When she saw the cocky grin on his face, she knew he meant it. She looked down and swallowed. "Benji... look away," she told her brother. He stared at her for a moment with his mouth open and a terrified look on his face. She gave her best big-sister, reassuring nod, and he slowly turned towards the wall behind him. She glared up at Timik, who was grinning like a kid on his birthday. "I hate you," she told him and began to unbutton her shirt.

"But baby, I'm about to _loooooove _you," He said and unzipped his pants.

"Hands up!" A high-pitched voice commanded from outside the cell. Sadie looked over to see a young boy with sandy-brown hair standing there holding a hunting rifle; the barrel of which was jutting through the bars of the cell and aimed at Timik's chest.

Timik stared at the boy in shock and confusion, then tilted his head. "What are you going to do, kid? Shoot me? Down here? And alert a whoooooole building _full _of Super Mutants?"

"Yep," The boy answered dryly. Sadie watched his face closely. It didn't seem to show any fear, _or_ lies. She looked up at Timik. Apparently, he thought the same thing.

"Alright, _boy_," Timik began with utter disgust as he put up his hands, "you win."

"Untie her," The boy commanded and nodded to Sadie. _Who _is _he?, _she wondered as Timik grumbled and began undoing the knot on her wrists. When her hands were freed, the boy made him untie her ankles as well. When he begrudgingly did so, the kid made him sit at the opposite end of the cell with his hands up. "Are you OK?" He asked her, keeping the gun trained on Timik.

She rubbed her wrists and squinted at him. "Yes... who are you?"

"I'm Grog-" He began, but stopped abruptly and went a little red in the face. "I'm Oliver."

She still had no idea who he _was_, but she supposed it didn't matter. "Well, thank you Oliver. I'm Sadie." He took one of his small hands off the gun and offered it to her. She looked down, hesitated for a moment, and shook it. "Can you help my brother over there too?" She asked and pointed to Benji.

"Sure thing. First, better tie _that _one up," He told her and motioned to Timik.

"You're right." Sadie nodded her agreement and picked up the rope she had been bound with. She walked up to Timik and he stared up at her grinning and stuck his hands out. "Behind you," Sadie told him. He lingered for a moment, the smile fading from his face, and then reluctantly turned and put his hands behind him. As she tied him, the boy--Oliver--went to the other cell and freed her brother's binds with a small dagger.

"Timik," Karn said, the anger was apparent even in his deep, monotone voice.

"What can we do?" Timik answered as Sadie finished the knot on his wrists. "The _boy_ has bested us."

"I don't suppose you have a key?" Sadie asked, although she already figured she knew the answer. Oliver shook his head.

"The big one has it!" Her brother suddenly said, rising to his feet and grasping the bars. "He had it on a keychain around his belt... you could... you could _steal _it from him!"

Sadie looked from her brother to the boy. He was a short, skinny thing; couldn't have been older than twelve. He had an appropriately-sized tiny dagger strapped to his calf and a rusty hunting rifle in his hands. When she thought of him going up against that Super Mutant--let _alone_ several of them--it made her skin crawl. He was just a boy! He was looking at her, and he must have been reading her thoughts, because the next thing he said was:

"I may be small, but I'm quiet and sneaky too. They won't see me. I never lose at hide 'n seek back at Little Lamplight. Never." He walked over to Benji, reached down, took out his dagger, and handed it to him. "That's if the big guy in there tries anything while I'm gone." He looked at Sadie. "I need to take the rifle though. You know... just in case."

She was shocked at how calm and in charge he was for such a young kid. _You grow up fast in the wastes, Sadie. You know that better than anyone, _she thought. "Good luck," was all she could think of to say. She had no idea who he was, but he was doing a good job at saving them so far.

"You don't need luck if all your enemies are dead," he told her as he walked out the door. "That's what Grognak said in issue eleven." He gave her one last look, and then disappeared around the corner of the doorway, rifle in hands.

"Grognak?" Timik questioned when they were alone. He was grinning like a fool again. "The comic book guy? Jesus, we're all goners!" He cackled.

Sadie folded her hands in her lap and stared at the floor. Timik was an ass, but he had a point. The boy was just... a _boy_. She looked at her brother's terrified face. _But right now, he's our only chance..._

*******


End file.
